Hammock Awaiting 30 X 48 Paul Hampton Crockett Some of you may not be aware that, before all else, I am an artist (painter.) I hoped no one would mind if I shared this one, under the circumstances. Wainwright Park is a still-green jewel of a public park sitting at the north end of that small stretch of the original Brickell Avenue running just along Biscayne Bay, with the Rickenbacker Causeway toll booths to the L, and the original grounds of Villa Vizcaya at the opposite end. It is one of the very few parcels remaining of the vast sub-tropical hardwood hammock forest (more like “jungle!”) that flourished in its native and wild grandeur for millennia, until the White man came along, bearing his saws, axes, and big ideas on how to turn a buck. Hammock, used in this sense, is not to be confused with the kind that you might see singer Jimmy Buffet lying in, but is derived from a phrase used by the ancient people meaning dry land. Remember that in its natural state, much of South Florida was either part of the Everglades proper, or marsh/ wetlands. Higher ground” therefore meant “dry land,” which in turn signaled different kinds of thriving plant life. Until just a little over 100 years ago, such land was generally either the rocky pine lands, or “Hammock.” The former was characterized by vast stretches of palmetto and gloriously tall Dade County Pine” (* Pinus elliotti*), sometimes known as Florida Slash Pine,” for reasons you will quickly understand if you pass one by and brush up against its thick green needles. The latter was the tangled, infinitely various, and glorious jungle-like forest that thrived here. Tragically, only the tiniest fraction of the unique ecosystem has been allowed to survive. Thats part of what makes places like Wainwright and Simpson Parks, and the Estates of both of the Deering brothers (Charles down in the Old Cutler area, in the general region of homestead/ the South Pole, and James, in Coconut Grove), truly special. In these lush and inviting shaded sanctuaries, one can see native trees, other growth, coral rock and living breathing Earth, and imagine how it once was. Wainwright Park is very close to my heart. It has “been there for me” through the seasons of my life; in fact, I cannot remember a time when it was not part of my life. (Among the sweetest of my early memories, as simple as it is beautiful, is this one: I’m of kindergarten age, with my family enjoying a simple picnic on the edge of that jungle by the bay, long before the place was parkified and the entire section of the native forest immediately bordering on the Bay had been cleared back as far as a football field, to make room for rustic pavilions and the open space called for by modern conceptions of “park.” ”Dinner” (meaning ‘lunch” in the South) had been carted along; there was ice cold iced tea and maybe Coca Cola too, fried chicken quite delicious cold, and biscuits and cole slaw and corn on the cob. Nothing was hard, in that moment. We were all momentarily rendered mellow. I remember feeling a little sleepy and absolutely safe, lying on my side on a huge blanket with everybody else. Suddenly, I had this *moment.* The happy chatter continued, but faded almost completely to background, in my ears. My attention was irresistibly to the Bay, and I moved my head as if in slow motion. I looked out upon the Bay and my eyes opened wide with wonder. I saw stretching to the distant horizon a field of deepest blue, its surface so utterly smooth that it might have been made of fine glass. Even then, the sight took my breath away. I tell you; I will remember that simple sight for as long as I am able to remember beauty. My father Jerry was every bit as native-born and “of the land and sea” as we were. (He was born at his family home in the Redland on December 3, 1930.) He was a great Father in many ways; one special memory being the “family outings” we would undertake, mostly on week-ends (back when that word meant something very different : ) ). We would set out to explore the natural side of Miami. A boy is just happy to spend time with his Dad, and to see it all through the eyes of a child was a purely magical experience! The soaring vine-covered trees, their tops murmuring in the salt breezes high above, the bizarre coral formations all around, and the notable dips and peaks of the land made for a truly exciting adventure, every time. This painting was commissioned by, and done specifically for, my cousin Patrick McMakin. He is a few years older than I, the only child of my fathers now departed oldest sister, Bettina. My memories of him in Miami involve sightings from afar at the very occasional family get-together, and going to see his “combo” (a Beatles-era term for “rock band”), dressed in true 1960’s bell-bottomed, lurid 1960’s glory, performing at Burdine’s Department store. Then he left for Vietnam. He is definitely a story unto himself, and the bond we share is deeper than even blood. He now lives with his Thai wife and his most recent three children in Thailand, having fallen completely in love with Southeast Asia, notwithstanding the grim circumstances of his first arrival. The point relevant here is that he was reared and grew up in Miami, and, in the absence of his biological father, had been essentially raised by his Mom and our grandfather Crockett, who loved him, undertook to teach him, and demanded from him always his very best, as he did his own. The love, respect, and affection that we share for our Granddaddy is is a most sacred bond. So, this painting was done with the knowledge that its home was to be in Thailand, and that part of my cousin’s heart would always remain here in Miami. It is something of a celebration. You will note that, in a situation utterly perverse, the pitifully small amount of remaining forest available to the people of Miami is fenced in. (Actually, doubly fenced: both traditional high fence and iron grid of speared black metal closely encircling. It was a horrifying moment to come upon my woods for the first time after the tall iron fence had been built, imprisoning the gentle woods as if native beauty were a crime, and escape high on its agenda.) The alleged justification for the horror is “preservation of the forest,” but don’t believe it. In truth, the fences have been put up for the same reason that virtually all the parking spaces have been removed: because the wealthy residents of that Street have little tolerance for the general public walking about the public lands, exactly as if they owned the place. (You will recall that this is where the infamous “Stallone Gate” went down, with the neighborhood association seeking complete closure of the street to “outsiders.”) But all that noise aside, the park remains, like a victory. One that is yours, mine, and also that of the residents on the street, some of whom are probably very nice people, underneath it all. Just as little something different, I’ve included two pics of the painting in progress. This one was important to me. I hope that you will enjoy it. Your attention and interest is a blessing. Thank you.
Posted on: Thu, 26 Jun 2014 23:37:39 +0000
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